


The Usual

by Draycevixen



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Comedy, Crack, M/M, meta-fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-06
Updated: 2010-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-09 23:05:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draycevixen/pseuds/Draycevixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodie is tired of being manipulated. A slice of meta-tinged silliness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Usual

"What do you mean, you _just_ want to watch the match?"

"Just what I said." Bodie slumped down further on the couch, arms crossed.

"Oh I get it, you mean you want to watch the match while we steal awkward glances at each other, pining for how we'll never really have each other until we finally drink enough that one of us will blurt out what he really feels and then we'll get into some wild _can't wait another minute_ frottage… or do you fancy the one where we—"

"No. I meant I want to _watch_ the match." Bodie shifted uncomfortably under the weight of Doyle's glare. "All right, perhaps we could cuddle a little but only if you insist."

"Oh no, no fucking way, Bodie. If you're even thinking about suggesting enfolding me to your manly bosom with your muscular arms, I'm going to beat you to death with your biggest poetry book. I'm exhausted and I certainly don't have the inclination to go out at this time of night to get my hair highlighted and to pick up the necessary eye drops from the chemist for that Bambi-esque look. Besides the fact it takes me two weeks to lose enough weight to look like a fragile flower, I hate the defenceless waif bit even more than the..."

"Elves?"

Doyle hit him with a cushion.

"We agreed we'd never even _mention_ that again, along with pilots, Indian chiefs, rent boys, ballet dancers... You _promised_."

"Sorry, slip of the tongue."

"Now _there's_ an idea, why don't you—"

"Give a bloke a break, Doyle. I just want to spend the evening the way best mates usually do. A takeaway curry, a few lagers and a match on the telly. Loud insulting remarks about the Ref's intelligence, a few fart jokes, some off-colour remarks about the birds in the adverts—"

"So, this is how it ends, you're bored with me."

"Fuck no Ray, I still want you, I'm just tired of this bloody place. There's handcuffs in the bread bin, ropes on the bed and a pair of leather gloves in every single drawer. All my shirts have _rip-away_ buttons and there's salad oil in every single cupboard in the kitchen and I don't even like salad."

"I think you're exaggerating a bit mate."

"You think so?" Bodie handed one of the cushions to Doyle. "Feel that."

"It feels slippery."

"Course it does that's because it's coated in emergency lube. There's a tube of it under every bloody object in this flat, it's even woven into the lamp shades. It's fucking depressing." Bodie suddenly jumped to his feet. "Get your coat on Ray."

Doyle got up slowly from the couch.

"You want me to leave?"

"No, I want _us_ to leave. We're going to a hotel."

Ray reached for his jacket, smiling at Bodie. "Oh right, we haven't done the hotel bit in a while. _The one double bed when we were expecting two singles_ routine, or _the long accidental eyeful when your towel slips on the way back from the bathroom triggering a response in my already too tight jeans that cannot go unnoticed leading to declarations of long held feelings followed by a frenzied coupling_ bit?"

"Neither." Bodie finished pulling on his own jacket, shepherding Doyle towards the front door. "We're going to a hotel that's prop-free in order to watch the match and take a hard-earned night off."

Doyle turned back suddenly, snapping a piece off the nearest lamp shade and slipping it into his pocket.

"What d'you do that for Ray, I told you we're not—"

Doyle interrupted him by kissing him briefly. "It's just in case we come up with a few new ideas of our own. So, which hotel?"

"You don't think I'm stupid enough to answer that in front of _them_ do you? Last time I blurted it out they'd already installed enough chains and whips to fill a dungeon by the time we got there and that dark haired one over there has been muttering about how Cowley is obviously more than just our boss and—"

"Point taken, we'll decide in the car where we're going."

They walked out of the flat to the sound of a hundred frustrated Pros writers striking their heads repeatedly against their keyboards.  
.


End file.
